Now, of course, Michael was king. Never mind that he had little to do with the merinos – it was Rory, the middle brother, who was always there for shearing, always at the sales. And Rob, the youngest, managed the vines, lived up here from January through to harvest, netting, checking, watering, singing to the little bunches of Shiraz and Riesling grapes. But no, never mind all that. When Michael arrived at the homestead with Ali, Thea and Stella, Alma cried with happiness and Gil’s walnut face cracked into a wide, warm smile, and he held open his arms for the girls, who ran at him like puppies. They were old people now, Alma and Gil, but sprightly and lean, full of old-fashioned vim and vigour. They believed they’d led a blessed life, and the absence of children of their own only made them cherish the McCormacks more. Neither of them saw any neglect in Michael’s long absences from Lismore; after all, he was a doctor, a kiddies’ doctor, no less. Pride and joy flowed from them to him, but it always had, so he didn’t really notice it now.

The next morning Ali slept late. When she came downstairs, Michael was gone, making a dutiful tour of the estate with Thea in the old ute. Alma was cleaning out drawers and cupboards, piling linens and crockery and cutlery on the kitchen table, her traditional hot-weather chore. They chatted about the heat, and how washing on the line dried cardboard-stiff before the next wash was out of the machine. Then Ali wandered outside with a coffee to the porch and saw Gil and Stella hosing the wooden sheds, drenching them against the possibility of destruction. He didn’t like the wind coming at them off the desert, and east of Burra there was a fire raging that had already burned through close to a thousand hectares and wasn’t yet anything like under control. Most of the Lismore hands were out there today, helping beat it back. Stella, in an old T-shirt, shorts and wellies, waved at Ali and came over to her to tell her one of Gil’s stories, about a gum tree that had once burst into flames three months after being struck by lightning, its roots like dormant kindling, quietly burning deep underground until a south-westerly – just like today’s, just the same – had fanned the buried flames and destroyed twelve thousand hectares of farmland and every dwelling in its path.

‘Fire,’ Stella said. She was damp, and filthy, her hair not brushed, untied. She looked beautiful. ‘It’s awesome, really.’

‘Like the ocean,’ Ali said. ‘Makes you feel small.’

‘Yeah,’ Stella said, and looked back at Gil, protecting his domain. ‘Small, but not completely helpless.’

‘No, not completely helpless, not with Gil on our side. Does he really think the fire’s going to reach us?’